


Red

by itsalwaysyou_jw



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Short One Shot, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 22:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16606352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsalwaysyou_jw/pseuds/itsalwaysyou_jw
Summary: Within Sherlock Holmes exists a vivid rainbow that cannot show itself. Only in the brilliant light radiating from John Watson can he begin to expose the colours that live within.





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> This series is a collection of one-shots where I press "shuffle" on Inevitably-Johnlocked's famous playlist and write a fic based on the first song that pops up.
> 
> This work hits two birds with one stone since it is also my submission to the Sherlock Challenge. November’s prompt is: **white**.  
> This work draws from Western colour symbolism that I got from this website: https://www.bourncreative.com/tag/color-meaning/  
> Any allusion to colour symbolism is not my own interpretation. This work is rooted in the subjective meaning outlined by the website above.
> 
> Inspired by: "Red" by Taylor Swift.

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t _feel_ things. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t understand love. Sherlock Holmes is the brain without a heart.

That was the official party line. He lived, breathed, and exuded the narrative: no beauty touched him, no passion rolling around in his soul, and no love penetrated him.

There are some things so ingrained in the minds of a society that they create links where there is no conscious train of thought to connect them. Colour is just one example. In Western Culture, the colour of darkness is evil.

If he dressed in black, acted blank and ruthless, if he truly emulated the colour of emptiness, then surely the book must be judged by the cover. Black was his cover; the colour of midnight, the colour of death. It represented his authority and sophistication while symbolizing the dangerous and unknown. The colour itself is a void where all other colours are absorbed. It takes and it takes and it takes and it does not reflect even a ray of light.

In many ways, the human mind is incapable of comprehending the colour at all. Black is a void that our mind runs viciously away from. In a truly black environment, the mind will play tricks on itself to imagine a light, a movement, or anything at all to escape the pressing darkness. The black objects in this world only make sense to our mind in the context of the items around it.

A _black-hearted_ person: one who is subjectively evil.

A _black-sheep_ : the outcast who does not fit in with others.

A _blackguard_ : a scoundrel.

Sherlock Holmes was everything the colour represented.

White is the colour of light, innocence, and safety. White is a complete reflection, the inability to absorb colour at all. It is a mirror of brilliance, symbolic of fresh beginnings, goodness, and purity. The colour white is unable to be used for cover because it is blinding in its brilliance.

A _white knight_ : a noble hero who comes to the rescue.

A _whitelist_ : a list of acceptable, good, or approved items.

To be _white as snow_ : having the quality of purity, cleanliness, and innocence.

John Watson is everything the colour represented.

Sherlock Holmes was not heartless or incapable of love; he was merely painted that way. It was his greatest secret. With careful strokes of a harsh brush, he covered himself in the illusion of distance and watched with satisfaction as everyone around him believed it. Love, he knew, was a dangerous disadvantage. He’d learned from a young age that to love is to hurt and to hurt is unbearable.

In truth, he contained all the beauty of the rainbow within him, though it was suppressed beyond recognition. He had no idea, truly, how to allow himself to be the man he was inside.

Falling in love with John Watson was revealing the colours within him one by one. 

* * *

There was something in the air entering his lungs that made his heart leap for joy for receiving it. Together they ran through the streets of London, his scheme playing out perfectly as John followed suit without his walking stick. They were likely chasing a dead-end, but his soul and mind raced as though it were the end of the line. They ran toward a new beginning in a way Sherlock had never run. He ran from people, from places, from connections.

Yet they flew together in pursuit of a criminal, and Sherlock knew they were running toward the rest of their lives.

The day John Watson arrived in his life was red: exciting, spontaneous, and daring. The two of them were full of physical energy, enthusiasm, and determination. The flames of passion licked awake the red within him. 

* * *

When they were on a case, John was exceedingly invaluable. Sherlock quickly deduced the simple reason: John was a wonderful conductor of light. Where Sherlock’s mind was a mechanical operating system, John lent creativity to expand his narrow views of the world.

More than that, Sherlock simply fancied having John around. It was a companionship he didn’t intend to rely on so heavily. John never once truly believed in the blackness of Sherlock Holmes. He saw through the mask of brilliant emptiness and saw something more: the ordinary man within the extraordinary mind.

Sherlock longed to be the man John thought he was. He attempted compassion and emotional vulnerability even when he could not recall how it all worked. The muscles were stiff from a long history of neglect.

Bringing John along on cases with him was orange: creative, emotionally energizing, and kind. 

* * *

It was a small miracle how often Sherlock was laughing lately. It exuded out of him as surely as the sun’s rays shone upon the Earth and he was helpless to prevent it. He’d never been one to laugh outwardly for such trivial reasons, yet his giggles were nearly infinite with John’s blinding reflection cascading its light over his world.

He couldn’t say for certain when he’d begun appreciating how precious his own life was. It was certainly after and related to the entrance of John Watson. He woke every day and did not struggle to find joy; it was beside him in his own home.

Living with John Watson was yellow: hopeful, happy, and bright. 

* * *

It was not unheard of for Sherlock to enter moods from which he could not escape. In these times, he felt incapable of grasping a lifeline. He fell and fell and there was no chance of surviving the fall into consuming sorrow.

At least he’d _thought_ there was no chance of survival. It turned out that John was quite a steady fixture to cling to when his mind was screaming for release. John was steady, consistent, and reliable. Sherlock would enter a mood and John would be there. Sherlock would push him away and he would stay. Sherlock would be helpless to put himself upright and John would take him by the hands and guide him through it.

Being friends with John Watson was green: healing, relaxing, and comforting. 

* * *

Watching the lawful union of his best friend to another soul was agony beyond torture. Watching in silence was nearly impossible. So difficult was the task of silence that his expressions betrayed him several times. It was too difficult to keep both his voice as well as his muscles in check.

Watching John swear before God and his family that he would eternally love and protect another was unendurable. It was verifiable proof that his love had always been unreciprocated. It was visual evidence at odds with the hypothesis he’d always known he shouldn’t propose. Yet by the warmth of John’s light, Sherlock had revealed more of himself to the man and fell in love along the way.

He was not somebody who deserved the warmth of John’s fire, yet he suffered all the same for not receiving it.

Losing John Watson was blue: melancholy, gloomy, and bleak. 

* * *

His life was blue for so long, it was impossible to discern where red began to seep into it.

Together, their lives reached rock bottom. Together, their relationship was torn to shreds until it was an indiscernible wreckage of unrecognizable fragments. He was past hoping for a way out of the burning remnants of what was once his hearts deepest desire.

And yet every day was better. It was never easy, but it got easier. It was months of work, months of communication, months of dredging up their mutual pain. Forgiveness rang through their bones as they cleansed themselves of the regret that flowed through their blood. Sherlock fixed himself, John put himself back together, and they both built themselves to be better men through the combined effort.

Rebuilding his life with John Watson was purple: vital, sacred, and requiring the stability of blue with the passion of red. 

* * *

Sherlock had been living in darkness for so long, he’d quite forgotten the brilliance of light at all. His act of isolation ruthlessly absorbed those sensations which he refused to address within himself.

Over the years, John’s ability to reflect light showed Sherlock the way to revealing the colours of life until they were no longer repressed within him. Each new colour formed together into a rainbow over Sherlock’s life that lifted away from his disguise.

Only when the mask was removed wholly and completely did he turn to John, heart heavy with the knowledge of what John had unknowingly done for him.

“John,” he said confidently in the comfort of their sitting room. They were in their chairs and everything was just as it should be.

“Yeah?” John prompted without diverting his eyes from the newspaper that his eyes were raking.

“I love you.”

John’s mouth crept into a smile so slowly, the pace of it sent bolts of fear through Sherlock’s veins. He dropped the newspaper and his eyes moved lazily to connect with Sherlock’s. The contact bound them together and in that moment, only the two of them existed in the whole world.

“It’s about time, you absolute genius.”

John was across the room with the steadiness he associated with the soldier and leaned over the edge of Sherlock’s seat to connect their lips with a glorious burst of colour. It was blinding in its intensity and he was filled with a white-hot passion, a pure white clarity, and he wove a white flag of surrender to succumb to his deepest desires.

When they broke apart, John’s mouth brushed against his to whisper, “I love you too, Sherlock Holmes.”

**Author's Note:**

> I once read that writing is a lot like making pancakes: even if you use the same batter, some will be perfect and light while others might turn out burnt and _wrong_. This work is my burnt pancake. The writing muses simply weren't with me this week. However, I live and learn. With any luck, next week's pancake will be _perfect_.
> 
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> 
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> 
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